


Can We Dance (Instead of Walking?)

by AppleSharon



Series: (I Wanna) Call It Love [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Crowley introspection, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-05-14 02:24:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: Humans tended to find his eyes terrifying. Aziraphale had always expressed the opposite, but Aziraphale said loads of things just to be nice.Cracking that exterior was one of Crowley’s greatest pleasures.After the near end of all things, Aziraphale and Crowley move forward together.It just may take a bit more time, in addition to the 6,000 or so odd years between them.The Solitary Sequel (To Never Knowing Anything At all)from Crowley's perspective. Reading it is not at all necessary to understand this fic. This can be read as a standalone entirely.





	1. There are reports of a heart-robbing beauty whose victim I know

The day after the end of the world that wasn’t actually the end of the world at all — or as Aziraphale had formally called it, “The Apocalypse-that-wasn’t” and as Crowley called it “yesterday,” although the demon was thinking up a variety of portmanteaus to exhaust Aziraphale with the next time the two saw each other — Crowley entered Aziraphale’s bookshop in Soho, London. 

Throughout his 6,000 years on Earth, Crowley had slunk, sauntered, or generally meandered through life appearing like he hadn’t a care in the world. On this specific momentous day and occasion, he straightened his spine, scrunched up his nose, and bounced on his heels for a moment taking in the sight of the bookshop’s façade. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop wasn’t pristine by any means. Paint had visibly peeled away from the wooden doors and window frames. Dust covered the glass window panes, nearly obscuring Aziraphale’s neatly-written sign that designated Aziraphale’s precise and inconvenient shop hours. 

Yet, it was a fair sight better than when Crowley had seen the bookshop last, burning around him without Aziraphale in it. 

Crowley suppressed a shudder and straightened his tartan bowtie before walking into the shop, a small bell chiming above his head. 

A small, rather musical, “Ahem,” escaped his throat to cover up an unintentional but visceral cough remembering the choking smoke.

It reminded him of Aziraphale and he smiled. 

There was no reason for Crowley to hide his smiles. Not now. 

Odd that his own vessel had decided to choose that specific point in time to be at its most human, but Crowley had thought of little else but Aziraphale at the time as the shop had come down around his ears. 

Crowley shuddered again, more violently this time. 

His physical reactions must be involuntary since he wasn’t currently in his usual corporation. 

He would have to fix that as soon as possible. If Aziraphale had translated Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy correctly, he would have to embody Aziraphale at all times.

Fortunately, Crowley had spent the last 6,000 years looking specifically in Aziraphale’s direction. 

Running his now stubby fingers over a few of the book covers as he’d seen Aziraphale do since the bookshop’s construction, Crowley noticed that they came away with a large amount of dust. 

He couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled up in his throat at both Aziraphale’s housekeeping — or lack thereof, another likely tactic to keep would-be shoppers away — and Adam’s attention to detail. 

Flitting around the bookstore, Crowley spent the next hour lovingly staring at book covers, emulating the warmth from Aziraphale that he had tried to bask in for millennia. He had watched the angel from the periphery of dark lenses over the years that offered him a small amount of subterfuge in gazing at Aziraphale without being detected. 

Crowley, somewhat surprisingly, enjoyed the act of recreating (even in mimicry alone) Aziraphale’s genuine love for books. He smiled broadly, allowing warmth to wash over him in a wave. Being in Aziraphale’s vessel was dizzying and wonderful. 

Crowley suddenly found himself hoping that his own corporation wasn’t too awful for Aziraphale and frowned. 

Turning his thoughts to what Aziraphale could be doing at this very moment — quickly brushing aside the more salacious images that rose to the surface of his mind immediately, and wasn’t that weird since Aziraphale was in his body, after all, but he kept imagining Aziraphale as himself and this was a terrible train of thought as Crowley now found himself just a bit physically uncomfortable and pressed his (Aziraphale’s) thighs together — Crowley walked into the back office of the bookshop. 

He had left Aziraphale in his flat before dawn, in case the two were being watched. 

Crowley could only hope that Aziraphale wasn’t ruining his plants with kindness, although this caused a mental image, unbidden, of a delighted Aziraphale in his flat last night, cooing over his plants.

They were — Crowley puffed out Aziraphale’s chest with pride — the most brilliant houseplants around. Talking to them had done wonders. 

Crowley had grumbled halfheartedly that Aziraphale would undo all of his efforts, while his eyes crinkled at the corners beneath his sunglasses and he attempted to keep a straight face as to not show just how charmed he was by the angel. 

As he entered the back office, Crowley was met by a surprising discovery near Aziraphale’s desk — which had been recreated complete with a half-empty mug of now cold tea — of gleaming red leather spines — Richard Crompton’s _Just William_ series, a near shelf’s-worth of books that definitely hadn’t been there before the shop had burned. 

“Those are new,” he said aloud. 

Crowley didn’t read if he could help it, and ninety-nine percent of the time he could help it — or, at least, he could figuratively slither his way out of doing any reading at all. Therefore, it may seem a bit odd that he would notice new books whatsoever. After all, he didn’t read them, although he had been known, on more than one drunken occasion, to brandish them as convenient weapons for argumentative emphasis. 

However, as it has been well established at this point in time, Crowley loved Aziraphale and Aziraphale loved books, specifically first editions of religious and philosophical texts. Crowley also had become increasingly familiar with Aziraphale’s back office as of late, since the two had taken to drinking there together after Aziraphale ate dinner. 

Furthermore, Crowley was an observant demon whose projects often required great attention to detail in execution — details of which Crowley had been quite honestly proud, and forever disappointed in his demonic coworkers’ lack of enthusiasm and praise during a variety of his presentations through the years. 

_Just William_ hadn’t been there before, Crowley was certain of it. 

On the desktop beside it, a yellowed cover with a large, black wing caught Crowley’s eye. Knowing Aziraphale (and thoroughly judging the book by its cover) Crowley assumed it was some sort of religious text on demons, and was surprised to learn that it was a small novel instead, titled _Night Flight_. 

Beneath it was another cover, this time with a blue sky and snow-capped mountains scribbled behind a prop plane: _Vol de Nuit_. 

They were the same book. 

It wasn’t as if Crowley had anything better to do before his and Aziraphale’s designated meeting time in the park, and he had to act as much like Aziraphale as possible, so Crowley sat primly in Aziraphale’s wooden chair and began to read. 

***

“The point is,” Crowley said, waving the French copy of _Vol de Nuit_ in the air. 

It was the cover with the prop plane, not the cover with the black (somewhat demonic-looking) feathered wing. 

He had to make Aziraphale understand. Now that it was just the two of them. This book, which he had read as Aziraphale to pass the time, had become oddly important to him. He had to make Aziraphale understand that Heaven’s cause had never been truly worth Aziraphale’s time or attention.

And now they were on their own. 

Crowley decided to lead off with the crux of his argument, taking a large swig from the bottle of wine that the two had been passing between each other. 

“Si la vie humaine n'a pas de prix, nous agissons toujours comme si quelque chose dépassait, en valeur, la vie humaine... Mais quoi?”

Aziraphale wasn’t human, he was an angel and Crowley a demon, but he had to see the parallels. 

Crowley hiccuped. He had never learned to control certain human functions while drunk.*

“The point is, no one ever found him, did they?”

One of the most interesting facts Crowley had come away with from actually sitting down and reading a human book was that the human author had similarly disappeared in an airplane, much like Fabien in his story. 

Aziraphale might find it sad, but Crowley meandered on, pausing only for another swig of wine. 

He talked of Patagonia, where Fabien’s plane had disappeared. He talked of certain human causes and how worthless they turned out to be. 

He and Aziraphale didn’t live short human lives but Aziraphale had to understand that he was so much more than Heaven’s agent on Earth. 

Aziraphale was everything. 

Crowley hiccuped again and wet his lips, which had gone dry, and paused his monologue when he noticed that Aziraphale was staring at him oddly. 

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale continued to stare, almost past Crowley, his eyes impossibly blue. 

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley tried to keep the undertone of concern out of his voice, but he was too drunk to affect his typical apathetic exterior. 

Instead, he swooped across the room, book and bottle still in his hands, and stared into Aziraphale’s face. 

Crowley winced when he remembered that Aziraphale had forced him to remove his glasses. He would have felt more comfortable with any emotions in his eyes hidden away. 

Also, humans tended to find his eyes terrifying. Aziraphale had always expressed the opposite, but Aziraphale said loads of things just to be nice. 

Cracking that exterior was one of Crowley’s greatest pleasures. 

Currently, Aziraphale was staring at him, bewildered.

“You alright?”

“Y-yes, yes quite alright?” Aziraphale stuttered out. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow in what he hoped was an intimidating way. Aziraphale’s response sounded like a question more than an answer.

“I had forgotten that you speak French, you wily old serpent!” Aziraphale said. "And when did you have time to read _Vol de Nuit?"_

Pride. 

Crowley could see pride in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

And, oh, Crowley tried not to be happy about this — especially considering that something was most certainly off about Aziraphale — but he allowed himself the briefest moment to bask in that pride, like a snake basking in the sun. 

Had anyone asked Crowley, in this very moment, if he was satisfied, he would have answered (begrudgingly because demons weren’t supposed to be happy) “Yes.” 

He expected nothing to change, and this was the one area of his mind that his exceedingly strong imaginative powers had failed to reach — outside of the occasional erotic fantasy, which Crowley indulged in from time to time, but always felt horrifically guilty about afterwards. 

The plants hated those times most of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic, it's related original fic, _The Solitary Sequel (To Never Knowing Anything At All)_ and the series that they're both a part of, come from a variety of Sondre Lerche songs off of his "Duper Sessions" album. I just thought it oddly fit.
> 
>  _Vol de Nuit_ or _Night Flight_ is a book by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (author of _The Little Prince_.
> 
> “Si la vie humaine n'a pas de prix, nous agissons toujours comme si quelque chose dépassait, en valeur, la vie humaine... Mais quoi?”
> 
> "If human life has no price, we always act as if something, in value, exceeds human life... but what?"
> 
> *This is of note because Aziraphale says similarly in A Solitary Sequel (To Never Knowing Anything At All), that he cannot control hiccuping while drunk. ^ ^


	2. I can't hesitate or wait 'cause I don't speak that language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This was enough, Crowley told himself. It was enough to be by Aziraphale’s side and do things for him and pretend to be annoyed while doing them._
> 
> _He had lost Aziraphale once. His world had ended hours before the true Apocalypse-that-turned-out-to-not-be-much-of-an-apocalypse-at-all._
> 
> _It was enough to be present._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion chapter [from Aziraphale's point of view can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/45831358)

Crowley was, if nothing else, a fast learner. 

It came with the territory — The Snake, The Serpent of Eden, whose curiosity bested him so that he Fell and for good measure then passed that temptation and curiosity onto Adam and Eve — learning quickly, adapting in order to survive, these were some of Crowley’s best qualities.

Best as in strongest, or most like Crowley as an entity, not best as in good. Never good. 

When Crowley Fell, emerging from the burning pit of sulphur to the horrors of former angels like himself writhing in agony, he told himself he would leave his place (now called Hell) as quickly as possible. 

The job opening for Earth, causing chaos and ruin throughout Her creation had served as Crowley’s escape route. 

During his time on Earth, Crowley adapted quickly. He found that humans themselves needed very little in the way of demonic intervention. They hurt themselves in ways that reminded Crowley all-too-often of the sulfur pit, and created wondrous things that to Crowley’s chagrin, up above would be more than pleased about. 

And then there was Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale who had placed a wing over Crowley when it had started to rain — a superfluous gesture if there ever was one given that Crowley had his own wings. 

Beautiful, gorgeous, exquisite Aziraphale who had shown kindness even to a demon and deserved all of the complimentary phrases and sayings of Heaven. 

Aziraphale whose nose and eyes crinkled with every smile. 

Aziraphale who dared to smile in Crowley’s direction, dazzling, so Crowley was forced to turn away and feign disgust. 

He learned to perfect his disgust over the years, not only to keep up appearances for down below post-Arrangement, but also because Aziraphale quite obviously (to Crowley and only Crowley) did not return Crowley’s affections. 

Crowley had two reasons for assuming Aziraphale’s feelings. 

The first, was that angels could sense love. It was one of their primary functions. Crowley had never heard Aziraphale mutter anything about feeling something different in his presence — like when they had travelled to Tadfield for the first time — and so Crowley (incorrectly) assumed that Aziraphale could feel it and was mercifully sparing Crowley’s feelings. Aziraphale was too good, too kind, and (until very recently) too devoted to The Great Plan or The Ineffable Plan or whatever other nonsense Heaven had been telling him all these years. 

This pissed Crowley off when he thought about it — he frequently thought about it — because Aziraphale was too blessedly* nice and of course he loved Crowley but certainly not in the way that Crowley desperately wanted. 

And so Crowley said nothing. 

Crowley’s assumptions here dovetail nicely into reason number two: his own, deep-seated self loathing. 

The second reason that Crowley assumed Aziraphale didn’t love him in the same way that he loved the angel is because Crowley didn’t see himself as a being worth loving. 

He was a demon, supposedly incapable of that particular emotion. While he abhorred spending time with his compatriots down below — who didn’t understand just how brilliant and nuanced his work on mobile “gacha” games with their capsule-toy gambling machines had been — Crowley had still Fallen with a capital “F” and wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, above all other beings in existence, Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale had also rejected him numerous times over the years, and the last outright verbal rejection still rung in Crowley’s ears during the valleys of his depressive episodes, furthering this idea that Aziraphale was well beyond, as the humans would say, his “league.” 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And so, Crowley had learned, for the most part. 

He had already learned to express his love in actions, without ever having to say a word because he knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t accept them. 

He had learned to perform miracles in the way that Aziraphale performed miracles.

He had packed The Globe Theatre full of somewhat confused patrons for William Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ despite hating it. 

He had walked on consecrated grounds, and learned to hide his despair as best he could, so what once was a continuous stabbing pain at the figurative distance between him and Aziraphale became a dull ache. 

And after the entire holy water thermos exchange, where he practically had begged Aziraphale to let him show the depth of his love in a more permanent way, Crowley had learned to well and truly hide, occasionally prodding to see if enough time had passed to possibly push forward but for the most part (rather happily) ensconced in acceptance. 

This was enough, Crowley told himself. It was enough to be by Aziraphale’s side and do things for him and pretend to be annoyed while doing them. 

He had lost Aziraphale once. His world had ended hours before the true Apocalypse-that-turned-out-to-not-be-much-of-an-apocalypse-at-all.

It was enough to be present. 

To reiterate, Crowley had been, since the near-end of all things, incandescently — he wouldn’t have used that word himself, too close to the aforementioned common adjectives of upstairs that he would have used to describe Aziraphale but with much more passion than any angel ever could — happy as of late.

Yet, Crowley also felt as if he was being tested. 

It was the most difficult test of what he had learned thus far because it battered his well-established defenses. The way Aziraphale looked at him was softer, simultaneously more possessive and loving that it had ever been.

Aziraphale touched Crowley of his own accord now. Small, fleeting touches but they were there all the same and reignited Crowley’s desire that he had purposefully kept locked away. 

At first, Crowley had thought that his mind was playing tricks on him — he had been too happy, he had wanted too much and would now be lulled into a false sense of security before being punished accordingly. 

However, despite all of these qualms, Crowley prided himself on being a quick learner. The stubborn side of him emerged and rose to the challenge. 

If it’s what Aziraphale wanted, Crowley would meet the angel where he stood.

***

As it has been established myriad times, Crowley doesn’t read if he can help it — his recent rant about the causes of man and sacrifice in _Vol de Nuit_ aside, which had been in service of making Aziraphale think, like one of their many, increasingly pedantic, religious arguments.

The bulk of the demon’s reading in the past millennium had occurred just over a fortnight ago when he was in Aziraphale’s own body, puttering through the bookshop before their respective trials up above and down below. 

This doesn’t mean that he can’t or won’t, but that such reading is usually in service of winding Aziraphale up, tempting the angel’s curiosity that Aziraphale all-too-frequently repressed. 

More importantly, Crowley was an excellent actor. It came with the demonic territory — lying, treachery, persuasion, all of that couldn’t exist without a bit of embellishment. 

So when Aziraphale brought Murasaki Shikibu’s _Tale of Genji_ to their weekly picnic, and proceeded to lean in closer to Crowley than he ever had previously, Crowley couldn’t help but snatch the large book from Aziraphale’s hands and read from it dramatically. 

Of course. 

“No penance can your hard heart find save such as you long since have taught me to endure,” Crowley read aloud. 

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. 

“Crowley, you make it sound so depressing.”

Crowley laughed. 

Had he been a believer, Crowley would have thought it fated to turn to this passage. His tongue was well in position to yell, “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?” at the sky, directed at upstairs. 

Instead he rifled through the text, randomly settling on more short poems and reading them aloud with his melodramatic flair. 

“Your coldness serves to emphasize my own inadequacy, and makes me feel that the best solution might be to expire.”  

Aziraphale huffed. 

“Really dear, you’re finding the absolute worst ones.”

“They’re finding me,” Crowley said with an unconvincing sneer. 

“Read a nice one next, if you must read at all.”

Crowley made a large show of flipping the pages (with a bit of demonic aid) randomly plopping his finger on one. 

“You are here to remind me of someone I long for,” Crowley read aloud. “And what is it you long for yourself? We must have been together in an earlier life, you and I.” 

Usually, Crowley would have backed off at this point, or blustered around, standing up and upsetting half of the scattered remains of Aziraphale’s lunch on the picnic blanket. 

But Crowley was a fast learner, and couldn’t help but push back towards Aziraphale. He read it seriously and, although he still wouldn’t admit to it outside his own head, fondly. 

Time stood still for just a moment, like Crowley had frozen it himself. Shade from the tree overhead moved in patterns over his his face as the wind blew gently through its branches. 

“A-are you a romantic, Crowley?”

And wasn’t that a loaded question. 

“Not really, angel,” Crowley said airily (or what he hoped was an apathetic affectation). 

He couldn’t push too hard now. 

Aziraphale nodded and looked at him for a minute further before reaching over and reclaiming the book.

***

Crowley was in a sour mood as he walked down Old Compton Street with Aziraphale. Although he should have been happy about the rain ruining the humans’ plans, the weather had also cost Aziraphale and Crowley their plans to attend an outdoor concert. He kicked the rain-slicked curb with his (faux) snakeskin shoe and grumbled under his breath.

Suddenly, there was a slight “Pop!” and the rain stopped. Crowley looked down through the droplets gathered on his sunglasses at Aziraphale’s beatific smile. 

“There’s some nice rainshade,” Aziraphale said.

Rain and runoff from the umbrella were now falling directly onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

It hurt. 

It reminded Crowley of the garden. 

“Give me that!” 

Crowley winced at how harsh he sounded and adjusted, poking fun at Aziraphale’s archaic language.

Crowley secretly loved the way that Aziraphale still used wholly outdated turns of phrase. 

Wresting the offending item from Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley leaned into the brush of their hands ever-so-slightly before making the canopy twice as large, enough to cover the both of them as they walked. 

“No one calls it rainshade anymore, angel. And if you’re going to miracle one, you may as well make it enough for the both of us.”

***

Bread wasn’t especially healthy for the ducks, but Crowley had kept some in cold storage in his fridge since Aziraphale had taken to visiting his flat as of late. He brought it to St. James’ Park on one of their weekly excursions, and took to throwing it directly at the ducks as Aziraphale read on the bench next to him.

Crowley was just in the middle of coming up with a points system to keep score of where he was hitting the ducks when he felt Aziraphale’s fingers tentatively brush up against his own. Looking at the angel from beneath his sunglasses, Crowley saw Aziraphale shudder. 

He couldn’t resist. 

“Cold angel?” Crowley said with a gleeful swagger. 

“No, quite alright. Just reached a rather scary part.”

Crowley looked at the book cover, Shakespeare’s _Twelfth Night or What You Will_ , and quirked an eyebrow high above his lenses. 

“A rather scary part of the _Twelfth Night, or What You Will_?”

“Ah, yes?”

Aziraphale sounded hesitant, as if he would pull away his hand at any moment.

Crowley shrugged and gave Aziraphale more time, drawing on what he had learned through the years. 

“At least it’s not _Hamlet_.”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to respond, likely to defend Hamlet rather indignantly, but Crowley turned back to the ducks in order to give the angel space. 

Ten points sounded about right for a direct hit on the beak. 

Crowley, very purposefully, did not move his hand, content to brush against the angel’s fingers for as long as he was allowed. 

He would learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rather than "damned" of course


	3. I don't know that tone, I can't translate from right to wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When he was not with Aziraphale, Crowley viewed food much like a human would view an everyday inanimate object. It existed, but he didn’t need to consume it in order to exist so he let it be._
> 
> _Sleeping was significantly more indulgent._
> 
> _So when Aziraphale mentioned that he wanted a proper cream tea of course Crowley blustered around and mentioned a place off-handedly that he had seen on Instagram — Crowley thoroughly enjoyed all of the usual mobile applications that wasted time and encouraged consumption — and said he might be busy that day but showed up at the bookstore exactly on time in the Bentley to drive them both._
> 
> _Because food on its own was not worth his time, but food with Aziraphale was something else entirely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The companion chapter to this from Aziraphale's perspective can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/45887200)

Crowley had the privilege of many lasting relationships in his life. 

This would come as a shock if said aloud to most humans who knew Crowley, because Crowley tended to keep humans, as they would say themselves, at arm’s length. He discouraged any and all fraternization (outside of Aziraphale) save what was required in order to tempt humans into sin. 

Yet, Crowley had many lasting relationships. 

It just so happened that only one of them was with an entity that could actually talk back — meaning Aziraphale, of course. 

The rest of his aforementioned relationships were with his house plants, several of which had been with Crowley for significantly longer than their projected lifespans — and in the case of the spider plant, had reproduced wildly so Crowley could simply repot the offshoots in his quest to grow the ultimate spider plant. 

Which really meant — and Crowley knew this himself, being introspective and self-aware — the rest of his aforementioned relationships acted as channels through which he worked out his own self-loathing in lieu of doing something so human as seeing a therapist. 

A demon? At a therapist’s office? It was like the beginning of a horrible joke. 

So Crowley stomped about his flat and yelled at his plants and recreated his own Eden bit by bit in a way that’s both painfully sad and no small amount of concerning.

Crowley was a bit of a masochist, more in the figurative sense (a person who appears to derive some sort of pleasure in doing something painful or tedious) than the literal (sexual gratification due to extreme physical pain). 

Although, Crowley couldn’t rule the latter out. He simply hadn’t tested it whatsoever. Lust was one of The Seven certainly, yet Crowley was far more drawn to sloth than anything else and didn’t care to explore his own urges if and when they arose. 

Of course, loving another being so completely for 6,000 years as Crowley had Aziraphale will do that to a demon.

Crowley didn’t see a point in pursuing that sort of thing needlessly, and he threw himself with both curiosity and no small amount of ingenuity into other sinful pursuits that it hardly mattered. His bosses down below didn’t particularly matter which sins he helped the humans along with so long as he did tempt them into nefarious deeds.

***

Cream tea — like nearly every other food that Aziraphale cajoled Crowley into trying — was simply another culinary creation of humanity in which Crowley had no interest.

When he was not with Aziraphale, Crowley viewed food much like a human would view an everyday inanimate object. It existed, but he didn’t need to consume it in order to exist so he let it be. 

Sleeping was significantly more indulgent. 

So when Aziraphale mentioned that he wanted a proper cream tea of course Crowley blustered around and mentioned a place off-handedly that he had seen on Instagram — Crowley thoroughly enjoyed all of the usual mobile applications that wasted time and encouraged consumption — and said he might be busy that day but showed up at the bookstore exactly on time in the Bentley to drive them both.

Because food on its own was not worth his time, but food with Aziraphale was something else entirely. 

Aziraphale savoured food in a sensual way that made Crowley grateful for sunglasses and the natural slouch in his human vessel. He loved it and Crowley took great pleasure in watching him. 

Recent events being what they had been — as established, Crowley was, if nothing else, quick on the uptake in most cases — Crowley decided to push his boundaries.

He pushed away the part of his brain that brought “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” to the forefront on repeat like the Best of Queen album in the Bentley. 

Crowley was content to be by Aziraphale’s side, but if Aziraphale was going to move even a centimetre forward, Crowley would be there for every last millimetre. They had time now. 

Which meant that Crowley could experiment a bit in the aforementioned masochistic way that he enjoyed so much. 

Aziraphale did the ordering, per usual, and the waiter was about to walk away if not for Crowley’s slowly raised hand. 

“Hang on a tic, will you?”

Crowley pretended to study the menu. 

“Yeah, so I’ll also have a cup of coffee, black, and a side of blackberries with sugar.”

“Sir that’s not on the—“ 

A snap of Crowley’s fingers and the waiter quickly stopped talking, nodded, collected the menus, and walked away. 

Wringing his hands in his lap, Aziraphale looked at Crowley with astonishment. Crowley imagined that Aziraphale was thinking why, of all times, would Crowley suddenly begin to care about food now. 

And Crowley would have been, or rather was, correct. 

Crowley was quite adept at guessing Aziraphale’s thoughts and moods with one, very obvious, blind spot. 

“My dear boy,” the angel finally said. “That’s disgusting.” 

“Yes I am quite disgusting, angel.”

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale’s voice carried the tone of a disappointed teacher or family member. Crowley squirmed a bit in his seat for reasons he’d rather not let Aziraphale ever discover.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Honestly I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes.”

This was said with a fondness and smile that made Crowley’s chest ache as if he had a beating heart. 

(Crowley could, in fact, have a beating heart should he so choose, he just often forgot or failed to pay attention to keeping up with certain human body functions due to laziness.)

Before he could come up with an appropriately scathing retort, the waiter arrived back at the table with a cream tea for Aziraphale and Crowley’s odd side request. 

Crowley flexed his fingers in the air before picking up a blackberry and popping it into his mouth, chewing slowly while knowing that Aziraphale’s eyes were on him. 

“This isn’t a proper cream tea, dear.” 

The admonishing tone in the angel’s voice had become oddly breathy and Crowley was imbued with daring, suddenly wanting to see just how far he could press Aziraphale before he inevitably pushed back. 

So Crowley smiled widely, impossibly white teeth on display, and picked up another berry. Positioning Aziraphale’s small dish of clotted cream between them, Crowley ran a berry through the cream and proceeded to eat it as messily as possible. 

“I’m exploring my optionsssssss,” Crowley said, dragging his s’s out while blackberry juice dripped down his chin. 

It would have been messy and uncomfortable had it not been for the look on Aziraphale’s face. 

Crowley kept pushing. 

“It’s good, angel. Would you like a taste?”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale leaned forward towards his outstretched hand and closed his eyes. 

Crowley traced the berry over the angel’s lips first. It left a glistening trail of cream begging to be licked off. Crowley pressed the berry and his fingertips between Aziraphale’s plump, slightly-parted lips, shuddering as Aziraphale’s tongue moved between them for a moment before pulling his fingers away. 

Aziraphale’s pupils were blown wide in grey-blue irises, watching Crowley attentively as he licked his fingers. 

“Sssssss’good isn’t it?” Crowley asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued.

“Y’know, angel, I’m beginning to see why you enjoy food so much.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and nodded. His eyes hadn’t moved from Crowley’s face. 

Another moment passed, and then Crowley leaned back, pushing the bowl of berries and dish of cream back to Aziraphale’s side of the table. 

He had done enough pushing for the day. He didn’t want to move too fast.

***

Keyed up from their cream tea, Crowley strode into his flat with heavy footsteps. He walked past his room of houseplants — who shivered simultaneously as he walked past regardless — and into his bedroom, flopping down on the bed and taking up the largest amount of space possible despite his narrow frame.

Next to his bed, on a sleek nightstand, was a bromeliad — a vriesea splendens, to be specific, colloquially called a “flaming sword plant.”

It reminded Crowley of Aziraphale. 

Crowley ran his fingers over the broad leaves absentmindedly until he was able to dull his thoughts enough to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feeling when you think Crowley is going to return to his flat and do exactly what Aziraphale did in this situation but instead caresses a plant until he falls asleep. ^ ^;


	4. I can't just call it "love"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was still by Aziraphale’s side. They had still saved the world._
> 
> _He could be by Aziraphale’s side in whatever capacity the angel wished._
> 
> _Aziraphale had an odd filing system for his books. Crowley had recently become acquainted with it now that he was spending nearly every day since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t at the bookshop._
> 
> _It made no sense to him, but he supposed it made sense to the angel. Crowley amused himself by purposefully placing every last book in exactly the wrong place from where Aziraphale instructed while willing the dull ache in his chest to disappear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/45995761)

A small thrill ran through Crowley’s body every time he saw the outside of the bookshop whole and untouched by anything but the natural elements. 

Or unnatural elements. 

Acid rain hadn’t been one of his but, like many things, Crowley had taken credit for it and received a commendation with a weary half-smirk and tired eyes hidden by dark glasses. 

And it was there, standing outside of Aziraphale’s bookshop before blustering his way inside and insisting on lunch that Crowley had an epiphany. 

Humans often describe moments of clarity as an electric charge, a lightning strike that commands their bodies to stand still and pay attention.

Crowley was a demon but he did, in fact, stand still. 

One hand lingered on the Bentley from shutting the car door but his body remained turned towards the bookshop exterior as if Crowley himself had become a conduit between the two treasured material things that he and Aziraphale had lost in the process of saving the world, only to have them restored by a capricious former Antichrist. 

He didn’t have to report to anyone anymore. 

Of course, Crowley had known this. Much like the poor angel inside the shop — who, at this very moment, was having a crisis of confidence and self despite knowing in some sort of nebulous part of his mind that he was in love with Crowley — Crowley knew this. 

After all, it had been Crowley who had tentatively leaned towards Aziraphale on the bus stop bench, sharing a bottle of wine and telling the angel that they hadn’t any “sides” anymore. He had believed it then and believed it now. 

Saying it as an attempt at comforting an angel — Crowley would deny, if asked, that he was trying to be comforting at all — still different from being hit with the full realization. 

He didn’t have to report to anyone anymore.

A world of possibility was now open to Crowley. A similar world was open to Aziraphale. 

As previously established, Crowley was a quick learner. He adjusted. He adapted. And here, he put what he thought were two related pieces of information together to form not an entirely untrue yet still slightly off picture.

Neither of them had to report to anyone. 

Aziraphale’s soft touches, brief yet purposeful.

Aziraphale opening his mouth dutifully, sucking on Crowley’s fingers, biting his lip afterwards in what Crowley could only assume was an effort to regain control of the situation. 

Aziraphale’s face, his pupils blown wide open. The pink flush in his round cheeks. A slight purple tinge from worrying his lip as he swallowed his food, never taking his eyes off of Crowley. 

Crowley shifted and wished that he wasn’t so prone to such disgustingly human bodily reactions. 

He also regretted wearing such tight pants although he comforted himself with the fact that there was little doubt that he looked fashionable and aesthetically attractive.

No one could blame Crowley for reaching an almost-correct conclusion in this particular case: that Aziraphale was finally making — albeit still excruciatingly slow — moves towards something that wasn’t a broad angelic love but something more focused. Perhaps there was hope that he wouldn’t be met with sickly-sweet kindness that was second nature to angels and their mission statement of Love. 

The missing piece of information for Crowley regarding this entire circumstance was, of course, that Aziraphale still had not had a similar epiphany regarding his own feelings towards the demon, despite having had them for several millennia himself. 

So when Crowley strutted into the bookshop with a loud “Hullo angel!” and was met by a stuttering Aziraphale who wouldn’t look him in the eyes — Crowley had already taken his sunglasses off after a quick scan of the shop revealed no customers, now a habit since Aziraphale had insisted weeks ago — he was disappointed. 

_Oh, I’m up to nothing too important. I simply thought this would be the perfect time to organize some of my books, dear boy._

Aziraphale rarely made an effort to truly organize his books. After all, organization would lead to the odd customer not put off by the slightly peeling paint and dirty windows potentially being led to buy something. 

This wasn’t the first time that Aziraphale had pulled away after growing, in what Crowley’s estimation was, to point where the two of them would have been seen as “too close.” Crowley too, even in his pushing or tempting (as it was supposed to be called) had withdrawn occasionally. 

He certainly didn’t want to be the reason for the angel’s Fall. 

Yet this time — with no bosses from up above or down below and the end of the world avoided in large part due to the fact Crowley simply didn’t want to be without Aziraphale, even in their imperfect Arrangement, dolphins be blessed — had seemed different. Aziraphale had seemed different. 

Dolphins were still alright.

Again, Crowley adjusted. He flexed his fingers idly in the air — his hand had been reaching for Aziraphale’s shoulder for a brief touch — and sat down on the side of the sofa closest to the lamp. He pushed aside his previous epiphany. 

He was still by Aziraphale’s side. They had still saved the world. 

He could be by Aziraphale’s side in whatever capacity the angel wished. 

Aziraphale had an odd filing system for his books. Crowley had recently become acquainted with it now that he was spending nearly every day since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t at the bookshop. 

It made no sense to him, but he supposed it made sense to the angel. Crowley amused himself by purposefully placing every last book in exactly the wrong place from where Aziraphale instructed while willing the dull ache in his chest to disappear.

***

Rain put Crowley in a foul mood most of the time — Eden, the Ark, myriad other unpleasant or bittersweet memories with Aziraphale through the years that he didn’t want to think about at this moment — and this particular day was no exception. He had arrived that morning, dripping on Aziraphale’s worn carpet, under the guise of helping the angel continue his newfound exercises in book organization.

Aziraphale sent him a pitying look while holding out a steaming mug of tea. Crowley bristled. 

“I don’t want a cup of tea.”

_I don’t want your kindness right now._

“My dear boy, you were just complaining about the temperature rather loudly. This will heat you up in a jiffy.”

“No one says that.”

_I like the way you haven’t updated your vocabulary in years. It’s one of the things I love about you._

“Crowley, you’ll soil the sofa!”

Crowley waved his arms across his body with a devious grin, spraying water everywhere while knowing that Aziraphale would miracle the books, keeping them perfectly safe. 

And if Aziraphale didn’t, then he would. 

“More than I do with my general presence?”

“Crowley!”

“What is this made of anyway, angel? The water’s running right off it.”

Crowley pointed to the sofa. He had expected treatment for the books, but Aziraphale hadn’t been one to care all that much about having pristine decor. 

“It’s treated.”

The angel sniffed disapprovingly.

“And I won’t give you your tea until you tidy up.”

“Oh, so you want a little demonic miracle, angel?”

He leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows. 

“Crowley, really.”

Sighing, Crowley lifted his hand in what could be misconstrued (or seen exactly correctly) as a rude hand gesture and snapped his fingers. 

“Really dear, I would have thought with all of your whinging over the chill that you would have dried yourself off immediately.”

Crowley took the mug from Aziraphale’s hands, careful to not lean into the touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, these two idiots will finally begin to move forward. ^ ^


	5. Yes you heard right, I call it love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His plant collection was Crowley’s first confidant and his car, a 1926 Bentley that would inevitably only play Queen, was the second._
> 
> _Crowley cared for his car more than anything, Aziraphale notably excluded, but hadn’t wanted to deal with the cheeky lyrical selection he knew the Bentley would have queued up for a chat on his relationship with the angel._
> 
> _He did not, under any circumstances, want to hear the Bentley’s maudlin opinion on the matter through Freddie Mercury’s voice._
> 
> _By contrast, the plants only trembled and were incapable of talking back in lyrical form. They would do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Crowley's version of "talking about his feelings with someone." Really it's unhealthy coping time featuring alcohol and yelling at plants. T_T
> 
> [Aziraphale's epiphany about his own feelings can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/46332526)
> 
> [Anathema Device's perspective on their entire relationship and her conversation with Aziraphale can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409311)

One of the worst-kept secrets — in Her opinion, which was certainly an important and authoritative one as far as opinions were concerned — of the demon who called himself Anthony J. Crowley was that he cared about humanity.

The other was the truth of his middle initial. 

Had Crowley put a mere sixteenth of the effort in performing truly evil deeds on the Earth over causing minor annoyances, inconveniences, and exasperating blockades of all kinds for his own amusement, the Earth would belong to Satan without question. 

Instead, he cared about humanity far too much. 

(In Her opinion, of course. Crowley would never admit to this aloud.)

He didn’t hold the same exact human inventions in high regard as Aziraphale, but marvelled at myriad other creations these fleshy favourites of Hers came up with. And when She decided to do away with them for whatever reason that Crowley was told — The Flood, a variety of plagues through the years, and so on — he refused to accept every single decision, choosing instead to surreptitiously undermine them as much as possible. Smuggling children aboard the Ark, accidentally healing plague-sufferers, these were all in service of subverting the will of Heaven, and certainly weren’t (Crowley always physically choked on the word, even when it was Aziraphale saying it) “good.” 

Perhaps it was because of this that Crowley had generally approached mortals from a more distant post than his angelic counterpart, who indulged in all sorts of human things and seemed to have had more than a few mortal friends over the years. At least it seemed that way to Crowley, and Aziraphale certainly did make more casual acquaintances than Crowley.

Crowley had human associates, not friends. 

This wasn’t some clever way of phrasing the way he felt about the mortals who entered his life to hide his true nature, Crowley simply didn’t often bond with humans in any meaningful way beyond using them for some sort of devious end. This included many artists that he had inspired across centuries and those who had aided in various plots against other humans. 

For six millennia or so, he had always looked in a different, more angelic direction. 

Further complicating matters was Crowley’s utter inability to voice his thoughts to other living beings. He was introspective to a fault — self-centered and incapable of being honest through anything but action. His focused self-loathing of his own existence, his Fall, and the hellish duty that he tried to eschew at every turn made it near-impossible for him to open up. 

Like Aziraphale, Crowley too was at an impasse. 

He had loved in a way that, while not secret, was certainly unintelligible to the object of his affection. Through action and small, off-handed gifts, Crowley could easily hand-wave (sometimes quite literally) away his feelings. Aziraphale’s inattention — and, in the earliest days of their tentative acquaintance, distrust and ordered dislike from his head office — meant that Crowley was safe. As safe as a demon could be in his situation. 

Crowley didn’t even bother to think on what could happen beyond a few wild fantasies. He wrote these off as pure lust in the immediate moments following, sprawled out on his bed wantonly before vanishing away the human mess from his 300-count, single-ply bedsheets and wallowing in disgust. Moving to a relationship more intimate than the friendship he had was, as previously mentioned, the one place his vast imagination did not dare reach. 

Even at the height of his desperation and fear for Aziraphale, he had asked the angel to go away with him — none of the “Fancy a shag before the world ends, angel?” that he had probably seen in a film somewhere — and that still hadn’t turned out well at all. 

Aziraphale’s recent actions had walked Crowley to the edge of that certain precipice: what if his feelings were returned? 

What if they had all the time in the world? 

He had tried not to think about it, but he had already adjusted. 

It was one thing to love someone without any expectation that they would return those feelings. It was an entire other thing to even consider the real possibility that they could be returned at all. 

Then the angel had promptly turned and walked back, leaving Crowley at cliff’s edge. 

And Crowley couldn’t, could never, hate the angel for it. 

This would just take a slightly longer adjustment period than usual. 

Without his or Aziraphale’s home offices to worry about for a bit, Crowley’s mind naturally turned inward towards other worries and Aziraphale’s recent step forward and subsequent step back. This caused further introspection, anxiety, and general self-hatred — not at all unusual for Crowley — and no one with whom to vent or talk. Crowley didn’t have a dog. Or a cat. Or any sort of human pet. 

He did, however, own two specific and equally human things that he bounced ideas off of frequently in lieu of traditional animal pets or friends (Aziraphale being the exception, naturally). 

The first was a large — in both variety and quantity — amount of plants. 

These plants spent the whole of their lives, from the moment they crossed the threshold of Crowley’s flat to their perceived or very real demise at the hands of their owner (depending on his moods), absolutely terrified. 

They were also Crowley’s greatest confidants. 

The point was — as the demon would often say to Aziraphale especially when he had a few drinks in him — he didn’t mean to yell at his plants. It just became a thing that happened. He had heard that speaking to plants would help them grow better and Crowley was nothing if not competitive when making an effort. 

(Not to be confused with making an Effort, which was something else entirely and intrinsically related to his feelings towards Aziraphale.)

Crowley didn’t know many words of encouragement. The demon remembered nothing but small but dense flashes of emotion from his life Upstairs — his recent return wearing Aziraphale’s face had nearly convinced him that encouragement had been sparse regardless — and Hell offered very little by way of motivational speeches outside of battle preparations. In a completely separate moment of talking to his plants years ago, Crowley had realized that any and all words of confidence, faith, or reassurance that he knew had come from Aziraphale himself and wasn’t that funny.

So he yelled at his plants instead of talking to them. He didn't really know much else, and their improved growth only fed this cycle. Now Crowley had the most verdant array of houseplants possibly in existence, and they just happened to also in constant mortal fear. 

They were also privy to the innermost workings of Crowley’s mind — whatever he was willing to hiss out, usually while intoxicated, into the emptiness of his flat. 

Today, the plants trembled more as a precaution. It kept Crowley focused on stuttering and hissing out random bits of his thoughts and off of them, avoiding any unwanted casualties. 

His plant collection was Crowley’s first confidant and his car, a 1926 Bentley that would inevitably only play Queen, was the second. 

Crowley cared for his car more than anything, Aziraphale notably excluded, but hadn’t wanted to deal with the cheeky lyrical selection he knew the Bentley would have queued up for a chat on his relationship with the angel.

He did not, under any circumstances, want to hear the Bentley’s maudlin opinion on the matter through Freddie Mercury’s voice. 

By contrast, the plants only trembled and were incapable of talking back in lyrical form. They would do. 

Occasionally knotting his hands in his hair, Crowley paced around his flat, wine bottle in hand. He writhed with every step as if his body wanted to return to being a snake but had forgotten how. Crowley hadn’t forgotten, of course, instead staying in human form in order to drink and work through what he surmised were very human feelings in his very human vessel. 

The pacing was accompanied by random mutterings.

“I don’t understand.”

“Had to have done something wrong after that cream tea but—“

“Moved the lamp closer it definitely wasssn’t there before.”

“Blackberries? Blackberriessssss!? how the fuck did you think that—“

“Don’t undersssssssstand.”

“He does! He does! That’sssss why—“

“I could just ssssssleep for a while.”

“It’ssssss ‘k jusssssst time like usssssual.”

This continued for hours until daylight disappeared and Crowley laid on his bed, thoroughly intoxicated, staring at the stars through his sunroof. Reaching out, his hand brushed the broad leaves of the vriesea bromeliad.

“Flaming sssssssword,” Crowley said aloud. His shoulders shook with a soft, hissing laughter.

This wasn’t the first time that Crowley had done this after Aziraphale had pushed him away, but it was the first time since before the whole near-end-of-the-world racket that it had hurt this badly. 

With a groan, Crowley rolled over and passed out. 

He refused to sober up before doing so, wanting to feel the physical pain of a hangover whenever he woke.


	6. There is romance, and there is love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His faithfulness was one of the things that frustrated Crowley the most about Aziraphale, and one of the reasons why he loved him so deeply._
> 
> _“Vous n’avez pas à croire, mais à exécuter,” Crowley spoke aloud._
> 
> _This sounded like something Gabriel would say: You’re not here to think, but to carry out orders._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French translations are, as always, at the end of the chapter.

_***On the morning of the first day of the rest of their lives.***_

Contrary to popular human opinion, the Great Library did not burn down all at once. Crowley would know because he had just so happened to be in the area.

And if a certain angel had also just so happened to be in the area, well, that had surely been a coincidence.

Humanity had the tendency to describe most events in grand, sweeping language rather than a slow buildup of events in a sequence or pattern over time. It would have been easier if there had been a giant fire that purged everything at once, but that wasn’t the truth of it, just as Nazism had slowly crept across the continent, figurative flames fanned by a rising tide of malcontent. A sudden event was easier to describe than a slow, rolling wave of decline. 

Crowley had previously thought it was due to their short attention spans and inability to review their own history — really it was like chatting with mayflies, as they would say, sometimes the way humans winked out of existence — but then Heaven and Hell had proven to be just as, if not more obstinate in that regard. 

The burning of the Great Library of Alexandria inspires images of flames licking parchment, quickly blazing its way through hundreds of thousands of papyrus scrolls, serving as kindling for a roaring bonfire and a verbal description of the fire on par with a William Randolph Hearst headline at the height of his role in starting the Spanish-American War. 

“What a fucking wanker he was,” Crowley said aloud, amused at how the words sounded in Aziraphale’s voice. 

He tried to snort but in Aziraphale’s body it came out as an amused giggle and he flushed with embarrassment and a hint of ardor. 

Crowley swallowed these thoughts as best he could, reminding himself that he was in Aziraphale’s vessel and didn’t know if the angel would be able to recall Crowley’s own thoughts while in said corporation. They were in uncharted waters, as humans would say.

For all Crowley knew, he could be ascending to his death that morning.

He discovered that, if he really thought about it, the death he was most concerned with was Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale, who had despaired at the running out of intellectuals by Ptolemy VIII Physcon and the library’s slow decline. Aziraphale who had drank himself into a stupor after head librarian Aristarchus of Samothrace fled to Cyprus, pressing Crowley to admit that it was his fault through his alcohol-soaked anguish. 

Crowley nearly had lied and said it was, just to give Aziraphale a target to blame. 

Aziraphale who had cried at the initial fire in the Great Library when Caesar had accidentally sacked it during the civil war. Papyrus, paper, parchment, bound novels with glue, they all burned so easily, erasing histories that humans rarely consulted to serve themselves but that Aziraphale cherished. 

Crowley shuddered, suppressing the memory of this very shop in flames. 

Among the stacks of the angel’s seemingly haphazard collection — Crowley knew that everything was in the exact place Aziraphale meant it to be, save Adam’s recent additions — papers peeked out of shelves groaning under the weight of their would-be wares yet never collapsing. Crowley looked down, the tiny volume of _Vol de Nuit_ in his hands. Aziraphale’s vessel thrummed pleasurably as he ghosted a finger over a rough page.

All this time, Aziraphale had been building his own Great Library, and he had almost lost it.

They had almost lost it. 

Swallowing again — great gulps of air that were at odds with the refined way Aziraphale carried himself and moved with pleasant grace and much more in line with Crowley’s snake-like qualities — Crowley thumbed past the preface, smiling as he imagined Aziraphale admonishing him for this. He recalled meeting the author once, an odd chap of noble descent who had disagreed with Charles de Gaulle, and summarily been wrongfully accused of supporting Germany prior to his disappearance. In those few moments, Crowley had found a kindred spirit of sorts, or at least someone who wasn’t afraid to ask questions while simultaneously struggling with the guilt and weight of it all. 

_Les collines, sous l’avion, creusaient déjà leur sillage d’ombre dans l’or du soir._

Although Crowley didn’t read frequently, it took him only a few hours to complete the book. Crowley also didn’t cry frequently, but over the short timespan of a human day, found himself tearing up twice: once in the midst of a burning bookshop at the loss of Aziraphale, the other as he sat in the angel’s body, book in hand, with a small tear trembling at the corner of his eye. 

He thought of how many times he had begged — in not so many words and, more recently, very loud spoken words, shouted across streets and parks — Aziraphale to go with him. To be with him. Deep down, Crowley had written this off as a hopeless endeavor long ago — how could an angel truly care for a demon beyond a perfunctory love and, if Crowley was extremely fortunate, a genuine friendship — and had settled for sneaking his feelings into various situations that Aziraphale seemed to appreciate on a surface level. Yet, until this very moment, with _Vol de Nuit_ in hand, Crowley realized that one thing, one very specific thing, had come so naturally to him that he had overlooked how difficult it had been for Aziraphale.

He questioned everything, and hadn’t lost that inquisitive quality upon arriving unceremoniously in Hell. And Hell was remarkably easy to question as long as you could do it in a clever way that didn’t draw attention.

But Aziraphale, Aziraphale believed in the good of his peers and their mission, or at least he had until very recently. 

Crowley was unsure of the angel’s true thoughts on the entire thing. He had been exhausted the night before and the two had sat in relative, but not uncomfortable silence for most of the night at Crowley’s flat before executing their plan. Crowley considered the fact that Aziraphale had gone to his flat at all as a sign that perhaps the hold of Heaven was loosening its grasp on the angel. 

It had been a long time since Crowley had felt Her love, and even then he had Fallen for questioning, because he hadn’t, admittedly, ever felt the same dedication that other angels, that Aziraphale had. 

Tears streamed down the cheeks of Aziraphale’s corporation. Crowley couldn’t tell if they were his own or a remnant, an imprint of Aziraphale’s own feelings on the matter. Perhaps it was a combination of both. 

His faithfulness was one of the things that frustrated Crowley the most about Aziraphale, and one of the reasons why he loved him so deeply. 

“Vous n’avez pas à croire, mais à exécuter,” Crowley spoke aloud. 

This sounded like something Gabriel would say: You’re not here to think, but to carry out orders. 

Again Crowley laughed. This time it was a freer sound that resonated like music through the shop. It was Aziraphale’s laugh — the rare one he had when he was momentarily unburdened and could simply enjoy a meal or a theatre performance or a poem. 

He withdrew a handkerchief from Aziraphale’s waistcoat pocket and dabbed at his face — a motion he had seen the angel do hundreds, possibly thousands of times at books, musical performances, plays, even the occasional film that Crowley tempted him into seeing. 

Aziraphale’s conviction, Crowley realized, was admirable, worthy of envy. And although he fervently wished for the angel to place a small portion of it aside, Crowley wouldn’t have Aziraphale any other way. 

Tears continued to gather at the corners of his eyes. 

Sunlight streamed in from between blinds and curtains, bathing wayward dust particles that floated through the air of the bookshop in a golden light. 

Crowley looked up at the ceiling. It had a large, brown water stain that Aziraphale had never thought to miracle away. 

“I-I don’t—“

His voice trembled as he did something that Crowley hadn’t done since his first few days on Earth, after the Fall, although he assumed that Aziraphale did it quite frequently.

“Whatever you do, whatever I do,” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s voice, his eyes fixed on the water stain. “Please, he doesn’t deserve to Fall.”

***

After two days of seeking the plants’ advice in between continuing visits to the bookshop, Crowley swallowed his pride and sought out the advice of the Bentley, taking it for a rather lengthy drive outside of London for a day.

This was, as Crowley had predicted, a frustrating conversation with the motorcar taking it upon itself to verbalize as much of its highly-opinionated thoughts on Crowley’s love life using spliced-together lines from not only the Best of Queen album, but Queen’s entire discography. At the end of it all, Crowley returned to his flat exhausted and primed for a nap. 

He shuffled his way through the foyer, ignoring the sound of his landline phone ringing. Crowley had congratulated himself smugly with the foresight to keep the phone after recent events in the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, but rarely answered it. Most of the time it was a random human trying to sell him something. 

His now-archaic, by human standards, answering machine picked up. Crowley heard a slight “Ahem” and then a tinny version of Aziraphale’s voice drifted through his flat. 

“Crowley, my dear, it’s Aziraphale! I can never quite get the hang of these messaging machines so I hope you’ll forg— ah, I do hope you’ll ignore the fact that I’m not likely to do this ‘in style’ as you say. As it so happens, I was feeling a bit peckish after a short trip today and what do you know there was a table open at the Ritz for tonight at half past our usual time. Could I tempt you to dine with me this evening? There are a few things I would like to discuss with you.”

How, Crowley thought to himself with a warm shudder, was he supposed to turn down such an earnest invitation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Aziraphale's point of view of this chapter can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/46955056)
> 
> [The Bentley's perspective of Crowley's ranting and their drive together can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022829)
> 
> _Les collines, sous l’avion, creusaient déjà leur sillage d’ombre dans l’or du soir._
> 
> Already, the hills underneath the airplane were digging shadows in the gold light of the evening. 
> 
> _Vous n’avez pas à croire, mais à exécuter._
> 
> You are not here to think, but to carry out orders.


	7. Can we dance instead of walking?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale had asked him this a little over a fortnight ago, although it seemed much longer. It was the closest the angel had come to inquiring or guessing at Crowley’s true feelings until now. Crowley felt trapped, suddenly tightly-wound and scrambling for a way out that would allow his feelings to go unexpressed in words. Unexpressed, there would be fear of rejection and scorn but there would also be the flicker of hope that sent Crowley conjuring umbrellas and performing semi-pornography acts with cream teas._
> 
> _Crowley desperately didn’t want to lose that hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY.

If Crowley was being completely honest with himself — he rarely was, despite being the far more introspective of the two between him and Aziraphale — he had spent more effort during his time on Earth observing the angel than any task assigned to him from Down Below. He knew Aziraphale’s mannerisms, his vessel’s tells, and how to read Aziraphale’s mood based on the way the angel stood, shifted his feet, or placed his hands. 

Given that Aziraphale’s eyes were so unguarded, Crowley couldn’t understand how others had such a difficult time reading the angel, but that was neither here nor there.

Tonight, Aziraphale was nervous. 

Crowley had gathered as much by the rambling message left on his answering machine, but as he watched Aziraphale effectively pace around the bookshop, spreading clouds of dust with a feather duster that appeared to be from their original inception in 1870s America, he realized the extent of the angel’s nerves. 

Standing in the bookshop doorway, Crowley paused to observe Aziraphale, noting how the angel wasn’t particularly paying attention to the dust he was redistributing onto his precious misprinted bible collection. Aziraphale’s other hand was behind his back in a loose fist, and his back was rigid, as if he was preparing for a meeting with Upstairs. 

Crowley sighed. 

“Angel,” he said, stepping forward into the shop. 

Had Crowley not been so preoccupied with Aziraphale’s state of mind, and the potential return of their respective overseers, he would have laughed at the angel’s response. He also likely would have taken pictures for social media meme purposes. As it was, Crowley chucked softly as the angel squeaked, twisting around suddenly and dropping the duster onto the floor. It rolled over to a stack of books with a rattling sound, a cloud of dust rising in its wake. 

“Oh! Crowley! You’re here early.”

“I’m here exactly one minute before you said I should be here.”

“Well.”

Coughing a bit, Aziraphale wiped his hands on his light-coloured trousers, frowning down at the black smudges on his thighs. Crowley should have been prepared for what came next, but was still a bit dazzled by Aziraphale’s pleading look as the angel turned his eyes up from his trousers to Crowley.

“A hand, dear?”

Stunned by the softness of Aziraphale’s voice, Crowley paused for a second before rolling his eyes and snapping his fingers. He’d long lost track of the amount of times he had performed these small miracles at Aziraphale’s behest. In that moment they seemed insurmountable and somehow given purpose, as if Crowley could point at them physically and say, “This. This was all for you.”

Crowley opted not to say any of this. Instead, he coughed and attempted to imbue his voice with disaffected sarcasm.

“Too many frivolous miracles again?”

It came out far fonder than Crowley would have liked although he did pull off a rather acerbic emphasis on “frivolous miracles.” He found himself torn between wishing that Aziraphale would notice it immediately, or miss the slight quiver in his voice completely in keeping with the angel’s traditional oblivious nature and thereby saving Crowley the embarrassment. 

If Aziraphale had noticed anything different about Crowley’s tone, he didn’t show it. The angel beamed at his trousers, now a gleaming cream colour and looking freshly-pressed, before offering his arm to Crowley. 

“Shall we, Crowley?”

That was new. In the awkward dance of their interactions post-Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Aziraphale had settled for lingering touches and literature, margins where he could still affect a mantle of distance and plausible deniability. 

Overtly holding out his arm to Crowley was deliberately not that. 

Crowley cringed as he swallowed a whine or gasp — honestly he wasn’t certain what the noise that came out of him was, only that it was an embarrassing mixture of confusion and longing — while reaching out to take Aziraphale’s arm. He was in the process of internally berating himself — “You are a fucking demon for Somebody’s sake, get your head out of your arse!” — when Aziraphale patted his hand and Crowley nearly leapt away from the angel in response. 

“You alright, angel?” Crowley said, stunned by Aziraphale’s actions. 

“Haven’t heard anything from…?”

“Oh goodness no! Nothing like that. I just wanted to have a nice dinner and a chat.”

Aziraphale was not telling the entire truth. Crowley could tell by the way his slight snub nose twitched in time with his left eyebrow. He decided to leave it. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been a summon from either of their former sides. Aziraphale would never lie about that. 

“Are you ready to go, my dear? I thought we would walk.”

Crowley stumbled as Aziraphale looked up at him guilelessly. Aziraphale never wanted to walk anywhere, even with his qualms over Crowley’s driving. Releasing Aziraphale, Crowley turned and studied him. Perhaps Aziraphale was having one of those “mid-life crises” that humans talked about. 

“You sure you’re okay? You’re not one for—“

Crowley stopped himself before he said something accidentally insulting like “exercise” or “any sort of physical exertion whatsoever.” It wasn’t that he wanted to pass up the change to have a go at Aziraphale and be nice for once. Nothing like that. He just didn’t want to deal with a sulking angel for the rest of the evening. 

“I mean, I brought the Bentley.”

Aziraphale pouted, still looking up at Crowley with a wide grin and impossibly blue eyes. Crowley grunted and took his arm again.

“Lead the way, angel.”

***

Crowley knew that this corporation was, by human standards, attractive. He took great pride in his appearance, changing it to match whatever was considered fashionable in the era, and even set a few trends for the humans himself.

This being said, there were times when being attractive did him no favours, like on this night when he was trying to get to the bottom of the true reason Aziraphale had invited him to dinner. 

And possibly woo the angel, although the related form of temptation (lust) was unfortunately an area in which he was woefully out of practice, outside of the occasional wank to thoughts of Aziraphale, which Crowley was certain wouldn’t go over well had he mentioned them. 

Therefore, he was eternally grateful to the angel for suggesting that they take a walk around the park, if only to offer a convenient and quick exit from the Ritz waitress who was making eyes at him. Lost in thought and oddly content as he sat down on a nearby bench, Crowley removed his sunglasses. As he looked up at the moon, he could hear the faint lyrics of Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” in his head. The corners of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly before he was abruptly pulled from any potential plans of romance by a soft, stuttering voice. 

“Crowley, can demons feel love?”

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley was well-versed in all types of human media. While he didn’t pour over books or hoard them like Aziraphale, he did pay attention to them significantly more than he let on. This is likely why one particular human cliché popped into Crowley’s head no sooner had Aziraphale’s voice faded into the night air: that of one’s life flashing before his eyes. This hadn’t happened during his time in Aziraphale’s corporation in Heaven, nor had it happened during his madcap drive to Tadfield in his burning Bentley. It happened now. All of the stolen moments with Aziraphale, all of the times that Crowley had been certain the angel would never return his feelings, they poured through his head, threatening to drown him. 

_A-are you a romantic, Crowley?_

Aziraphale had asked him this a little over a fortnight ago, although it seemed much longer. It was the closest the angel had come to inquiring or guessing at Crowley’s true feelings until now. Crowley felt trapped, suddenly tightly-wound and scrambling for a way out that would allow his feelings to go unexpressed in words. Unexpressed, there would be fear of rejection and scorn but there would also be the flicker of hope that sent Crowley conjuring umbrellas and performing semi-pornography acts with cream teas. 

Crowley desperately didn’t want to lose that hope.

_Can demons feel love?_

“They cannot.”

He tried to act nonchalantly but his voice was coarse, a gruff bark that quickly dissipated into the moonlight. It wasn’t technically a lie. Crowley could feel where the love from Her once had been — an open wound that would never heal. He also knew that this wasn’t necessarily what Aziraphale was talking about. 

“Ah, I didn’t think so.”

Aziraphale sounded disappointed and Crowley simultaneously wanted to beg him to stop and also urge him to complete his train of thought, putting them out of their misery once and for all. 

“Yet, what I meant is, well, my dear, I know you cannot feel love coming from others or Her love but you can feel it of your own accord? Towards something or… someone?”

Crowley, who performed acts like blinking and breathing instinctively, froze. 

“You see, I’m not certain how much you remember but for an angel it’s a bit like… well we’re expected to love everything and we do,” Aziraphale said. “It’s a bit like what the humans call white noise. Oh, we can feel different levels of it but on the whole it’s always there.”

Of all times, his angel had chosen this particular moment to be brave. Crowley swallowed the swell of pride that rose in his chest and threatened to burst out of him in a sob.

“It’s always there,” Aziraphale sniffed. “And—“

“Angel.” 

Crowley swallowed again as Aziraphale immediately stopped talking. Aziraphale’s eyes were trained on Crowley’s, brimming with tears and a particular pleading expression that Crowley had only seen once before. On that particular occasion, Crowley had stopped time itself.

“Angel,” Crowley repeated. “Demons can’t feel the love of others like angels can, but they can love.”

He reached forward, grazing the backs of his fingernails softly against Aziraphale’s cheek, nearly startling when the angel leaned into the touch, wiping his tears away with Crowley’s hand. Crowley reached up and twirled a curl of Aziraphale’s nearly-white hair around his finger. It was soft and somehow warm. 

“Aziraphale.”

The last time Crowley had said Aziraphale’s name aloud had been in the burning bookshop: a cry of rage and agony at what he thought at the time was the death of his friend. He wondered, a harsh laugh nearly escaping his lips, if Aziraphale knew that it had never been about Alpha Centauri at all.

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter from Aziraphale's perspective.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/48235321)
> 
> I really don't say this enough but thank you to everyone who has read, kudosed, and commented on this fic and it's companion. It means so much to me and I'm overwhelmed by how well this story has been received. Thank you so much.


	8. We are chemistry without chemicals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley tipped his head back and laughed. It was a loud, booming thing that cut through the tension immediately. When he looked back at Aziraphale, the angel was smiling softly up at him._
> 
> _“That’s what I thought as well, angel. But it’s not that simple, I suppose.”_
> 
> _“Most things aren’t,” Aziraphale responded. “Most human things, and most of our things as well.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming. I'm still not wholly certain that I captured this the way that I wanted to, but thanks to everyone who stuck with this story. The positive reception I've had to this entire series is still something that surprises me to this day.
> 
> Aziraphale's POV will come soon in _A Solitary Sequel_ along with a smutty book discussion between the two. ^ ^;
> 
> Also it's definitely purposeful that Crowley's side of things is less smutty than Aziraphale's.

No sooner had the words left Crowley’s mouth — finally, over 6,000 years after he had first thought them — disappearing into the damp night, than he pulled away. He thought of the broad, colourful leaves of the _vriesea spendens_ on his nightstand in his flat and the feathery tuft of red shooting out from its core. 

Aziraphale’s curl sprung back to rest against the angel’s head. Crowley’s finger felt cold.

A flash of anger travelled through Crowley, shuddering through his corporation in an anxious human way. 

The angel had planned this. 

Aziraphale had been nervous from the moment he had entered the bookshop. The angel had obviously intended to say something with this dinner invitation but it had begun like so many of their interactions, with Crowley performing a minor miracle, this time on Aziraphale’s dusty trousers. Crowley, like the masochist he was, had gone along with all of it. He had ignored the nerves, arrived exactly a minute before their meeting time, and lifted the dirt from Aziraphale’s trousers.

And then, Aziraphale had reached out. He had offered Crowley his arm and insisted on walking to the Ritz of all places, acting so oddly that Crowley would have bet that Aziraphale had heard some sort of missive from Upstairs. 

Crowley wasn’t a betting demon. When he did bet, he ensured that the odds were significantly stacked in his favour, typically through nefarious means. 

Between the two of them, it was always Crowley who reached out. Crowley pushed when Aziraphale gave him the slimmest of openings, Crowley came when Aziraphale called, Crowley pulled back when Aziraphale created yet another barrier. 

Crowley clenched his fists. His knuckles popped loudly and the peeling paint from the bench stuck to his fingers in dewy flakes. The park was too quiet and the sound echoed, mingling with the electronic hum of a streetlamp and the low buzz of insects. 

Another human cliché popped into his head; one of a weight evaporating from his shoulders as if his unspoken love had been made of actual substance, pulled downward by the gravity of the Earth until he had chosen to release it. 

_I love you Aziraphale._

Crowley didn’t feel lighter physically, but he could understand the sentiment all the same. He paused, cracking the knuckles of his corporation again. Although he wasn’t looking at Aziraphale, he could feel the angel flinch. 

_“A-are you a romantic, Crowley?”_

It had begun with that stuttering sentence at the park. It had begun over 6,000 years ago. 

Aziraphale had — Crowley could feel it at the very centre of his being, this had not been purposefully manipulative and the angel could be quite deliberate in his manipulations, the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t had only reiterated this fact — given him the oddest of gifts. Yes, Aziraphale had maneuvered Crowley, cajoling and pushing him to the finish line, doing everything but demand Crowley confess his love that very instant.

Crowley did, after all of this, still feel a bit put out, after all. There was a rather petty part of him that huffed through his chest, demanding to know why it was always he who had to make the first move, why it was always his courage that was required, while all Aziraphale had to do was react — rejecting or accepting Crowley’s overtures. 

And yet, Aziraphale had realized that — perhaps because it was Crowley who was always reaching out, gauging the angel’s response, and then tailoring his own accordingly — this was Crowley’s moment. It was Crowley who had known his own emotions for millennia longer, and it was Crowley who would have responded, in milliseconds, that he loved Aziraphale too, likely before the words could even have fully left the lips of the angel’s corporation. 

Perhaps Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to truly believe it then, as a response rather than a standalone statement and this momentarily shook Crowley.

_How could Aziraphale think so little of himself after all these years? After standing up to Hell itself?_

The proffered arm — for the first time ever, Crowley’s mind screamed at him — had been an invitation, a signal that Aziraphale, after pushing him away mere days ago, was ready to accept Crowley’s love. 

With these thoughts, Crowley realized that there was just one answer that he would not abide by, that he wouldn’t be able to stand to hear, despite loving Aziraphale desperately, regardless of the angel’s answer. 

“Aziraphale,” he repeated. This time his voice was firmer, more grounded than before. 

The angel had presumably been staring at him for Crowley’s entire internal breakdown and subsequent return to his senses. He continued to stare, blue eyes wide with confusion, fear, and joy. For once, they gave Crowley little to no insight on what the angel was actually thinking, although, admittedly, Crowley’s lack of intuition could also be attributed to the fact that he had actually given voice to his figurative heart’s desire. Crowley wasn’t above realizing that his own emotions could affect his judgment. 

After another moment of staring, Crowley sighed. 

“You read _Vol de Nuit_ ,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale unfroze. This obviously wasn’t what the angel had expected him to say. After another moment, Aziraphale slowly nodded up at Crowley.

Crowley moved closer towards sliding over the peeling paint on the park bench. 

“Vous n’avez pas à croire, mais à exécuter,” Crowley quoted. His hand came to rest on Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale closed his eyes and relaxed minutely into his touch. 

“What does it mean, angel?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. They shined with large, unshed tears.

“Y-you aren’t here to think. But to execute.”

“That’s a translation,” Crowley said. “But what does it mean?”

“It’s Gabriel,” Aziraphale said without hesitation. 

Crowley tipped his head back and laughed. It was a loud, booming thing that cut through the tension immediately. When he looked back at Aziraphale, the angel was smiling softly up at him. 

“That’s what I thought as well, angel. But it’s not that simple, I suppose.”

“Most things aren’t,” Aziraphale responded. “Most human things, and most of our things as well.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I have loved you for almost all of my demonic life—“

He winced internally. That had sounded better in his head, but was impossibly maudlin once spoken. Yet, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind and continued looking at him with rapt attention. 

“—And I will continue to love you regardless. I know that you love me, as you love all things. And if this is your answer then I am begging you to save your pity.”

The angel made a move to protest this, but Crowley had already held up a hand in anticipation. He felt Aziraphale drawing on his angelic powers in a righteous fury, sucking the air out of the night. 

Crowley had to continue. Everything they had fought for had always included the possibility of moving forward, whatever that meant. 

“The part where Rivière is thinking about everything he’s given up for his cause, all of the human things he could have done” Crowley began. “Do you think he regretted it?”

Again, Crowley reached for Aziraphale, moving his hand and placing it over the angel’s own, threading their fingers together. Aziraphale’s brow furrowed.

“No,” Aziraphale said slowly.

Crowley nodded. He watched as comprehension dawned on Aziraphale’s face. It was like watching a full moon come out from behind the clouds — Crowley couldn’t be certain that this didn’t happen miraculously — and he couldn’t help but grip Aziraphale’s hand more tightly. He leaned closer, breathing heavily into the angel’s face, pressing their foreheads together. 

“You don’t have to regret it angel. But you can move forward now.”

“Oh Crowley!”

For the first time in their lives, Aziraphale moved too quickly for Crowley. Crowley found himself with a lapful of angel and Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his own. 

_~fin~_


End file.
